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There’s another way to look
At it. The air does not envelop Mt. Everest. Mt. Everest Includes the air. Its paths develop, The paths of sky and earth. And The stories and the visions, they’re For far below, for every man With a paperback on the thoroughfare. The dreams receive from the neurons, its The neurons whose lights flash across Nodes, and then the wind whips The snow up to scrape and emboss, Up from the lower flanks of the mountain, Where the peach and cerise laundry flaps. Wind and mountain, mountain and wind, Never-ceasing turmoil, thunderclaps, Echoes and blessings, churning earth And raging mudslides, all of them speak, These are the elemental giants Drinking from the icy creek.
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Stories and rules, blood and bones,
Dreams of images unending And relays of neurons, these pairs Blending together, ascending and descending, Sometimes one is the mother and the other Is the son, and sometimes the other way Around. (Oh how my dreams emerge In the night from the roar of the ocean spray.) The source of the tremendous river Is the source of the banks, the oxbow lakes, The waters give the land new rules, The forest along the bank slakes Its deepest need from the deepest Waters, from the first bubble From which the river courses, until All the land, from wheat to rubble, Align themselves, under the sun And under the stars, until the land Is so rich that the dreamer on Its soil sees visions from Samarkand To heaven. And sometimes the land itself, Rises, the hills and their sediments, So that they themselves are the river, The dreams themselves and their wonderments. (”I too” he declared “have pain. I too Feel a twisted muscle, a creeping Dissolution in my skull, My honor wrecked, and I am sleeping (”As my money is depleted, I look and see you in the other Train, we’re running parallel Your train is clean you do not smother (”In cigarette smoke. But as for me, My vision of the moon is blotted Out, my own image in The mirror flinches and is clotted.”) (And since, since in a tenement The faucet is rusted, the water will not Run. Maybe you can know What that’s about, it seems such rot.) (If I could borrow something from you, Your eyeglasses, or your angle Of the view, from here to A boat where Arctic ice floes tangle (In the water and the chill Makes my bones wake up. The black Rough mountains are softened with snow And shall we paddle in the kayak?) |
 Yaacov David Shulman
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